


Doing Taxes

by Kass



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, tax shelter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-19
Updated: 2008-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kass/pseuds/Kass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do men make passes at men who wear glasses?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doing Taxes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Speranza's "Tax Shelters" project, a spinoff of the Great Canadian Shack project.

I figured it out a few days after we caught Ellery, my second week of being Vecchio.

Sure, I'd already noticed Fraser was hot. Hadn't been getting much of a vibe from him, though. Until I asked if he found me attractive—you know, just needling the guy a little—and there was something new in his voice. Sounded a little awkward, a little strained. Turned my crank. Took me the longest damn time to figure out what made him sound different: I had my freaking glasses on.

You can bet your ass I took advantage of that, later. Used 'em like bait, the first time.

Once he figured out it was okay to be interested—that clue phone rang midway through the first kiss—I didn't need help catching his eye. Thank God; my glasses suck. After all the teasing and shit I had to deal with in school, I do not want any reason to wear them except when I have to aim. Fortunately Fraser has some kind of survival thing which means he doesn't think about sex while we're in danger. By the time his libido comes back online, the glasses are back in my pocket. Where they belong.

So it's April 13th and I'm on the sofa, working on two sets of taxes. Because of course Vecchio can't fill this shit out from wherever the hell he's undercover, and all my paychecks have his name on 'em, so I have to fill out Vecchio taxes—but I can't just stop filing my own taxes, either. Walsh swears to God the IRS isn't going to give me shit about my unexplained lack of income, but I'm still not happy. Twice the paperwork. Which makes my head hurt. So I have to whip out the glasses.

Fraser's in the kitchen finishing the dishes. Why we can't eat takeout on paper plates is beyond me.

I don't hear the water shut off, that's how far up my ass my head is. The IRS don't write in English.

Next thing I know his mouth is on the back of my neck. Gentle, at first, but then the teeth come out.

"Hey," I say. "I'm working." And he pulls away, and part of me's a little sorry, but I've gotta get these things finished, we can fuck later.

I've managed to read another sentence and a half when his body pushes my knees apart. He's kneeling on the floor. Hands on my thighs. Breathing through my jeans, right onto my dick, which wakes up pretty much instantly. To hell with the taxes, Fraser's sucking me through my pants.

I drop the papers and they slide off his back all over the floor. He doesn't seem to notice. He's popping the buttons on my fly, tugging, and I'm lifting my hips, and then I'm in his mouth. Holy Jesus. Every single time it blows my mind, there has never been anything this good, nothing, ever, like Benton Fraser's mouth around my dick.

It doesn't take me long. He slides onto the sofa next to me, and I manage to work his jeans open, and I'm reaching for my glasses to put them on the table so I can really grind my face into his crotch. And he stops me. A little hoarse, like always when he knows he's about to get a blowjob. "No," he says. "Leave them on."

So I do. When he comes, he actually makes some noise. Groans my name so loud Dief probably hears.

Y'know, maybe the glasses aren't so bad.


End file.
